


either get used to this dread (or the cold spot in our bed)

by eberbae (dustyjournal), remembermyfic



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Ambiguously Happy Ending, M/M, Memory Loss, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 04:52:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12857139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustyjournal/pseuds/eberbae, https://archiveofourown.org/users/remembermyfic/pseuds/remembermyfic
Summary: “Confused? Like…. Like he’s forgotten?”Silence falls for two long beats. “Exactly like he’s forgotten,” Connor eventually answers. “Like he’s made himself forget.”“Like he’s cast a spell.”





	either get used to this dread (or the cold spot in our bed)

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost: IF YOU GOT HERE BY GOOGLING YOURSELF OR SOMEONE YOU KNOW TURN BACK NOW. 
> 
> This... started as a headcanon and got out of hand. Fast. It happens when we do any headcanoning together. Don't ask how many universes we've headcanoned. 
> 
> The is also affectionately titled "The vaguely HP-related AU no one knew they wanted"
> 
> We didn't find any triggers we didn't tag. If we're wrong, politely let us know :)

They’d been good for a long time. They’d been good for longer than they’d been bad. Then, two weeks before the end of the school year, the day before Mitch had to sit for his potions final, Dylan had tugged him into a dark corner of the school and told him they were done. 

Mitch had been devastated. Dylan meant everything to him - still does, even three months later, separated by distance and time and all of the things Mitch had been so glad to have. 

Then, the week before he’s set to return to MacDonald Cartier School for Magics - early, because training camp for the junior glace team starts before term - he gets a call from Connor. 

“McDavid.”

There’s a beat. “Hey Marns. How are you doing?”

“Just dandy, thanks for asking,” Mitch says, letting himself feel the bitterness and spew it out in straight up sarcasm. Connor deserves it for going radio silent all summer. Mitch had thought they were friends, even after the breakup, but he’s spent more time talking to fucking Jack Eichel than Connor. Mitch and Eichel aren’t even friends. 

Even more than Dylan, but he doesn’t think about that. He’s not thinking about that. 

He can’t stop thinking about it.

Connor’s voice is disgustingly earnest when he says, “Mitch.”

Mitch swallows and picks at the seam of his shorts for a moment. Fucking Connor. One day, Mitch is going to find the only human alive who can actually be mean to the kid. He hasn’t yet, but he will. “I’ve…. I’m doing better. It sucked for a long time, Davo. It really did, and I’m not okay, but I’m… I’m better.” 

There’s silence on the other end of the phone for a moment before Connor says, “Better like, could have done any post-break up magic, better?”

“Fuck you,” Mitch spits. “Fuck you, McDavid-“

“No, no, Mitch."

Mitch hates how Connor’s voice can sound so damn sincere. He grits his teeth and drops his head back against his bed. “What, then?”

“Dylan… he did something. I know he did. He… Fuck. Mitch, he didn’t really want to break up with you.”

Mitch goes cold. “Fuck you.” And he’s serious this time, not spitting angry. There’s a cold feeling of dread in his stomach, the shriveled remains of how much he’d once loved Dylan Strome, before it all went to hell. Or, well, before Dylan had yanked the rug from under him.

“He… I don’t know what’s going on. He was sulking one day and the next… He’s done something. Probably something dumb but, Mitch, he’s done  _ something _ .”

Mitch blows out a breath. He hates everything: the way Connor’s dragging him back into this, the way he can’t help it… the way he’ll never be able to help it because it’s Dylan Strome and regardless of how far he’s come, Mitch knows a piece of him will always be Dylan’s. All of him, really, but Mitch doesn’t have a say in that anymore. 

“What?”

“I don’t know.” Connor sounds endlessly and exasperatedly angry. “It’s like… it’s like he can’t remember anything about your relationship. Like, he knows who you are, knows you’re friends, but every time I try to talk to him about the breakup he just looks so confused."

Mitch stills. “Confused? Like…. Like he’s forgotten?”

Silence falls for two long beats. “Exactly like he’s forgotten,” Connor eventually answers. “Like he’s made himself forget.”

“Like he’s cast a spell.”

It makes sense to Mitch, is the thing. Maybe too much sense when he sits down to think about it, and it makes everything in him hurt. His chest constricts painfully and he tries to keep his breathing level even. 

“I didn’t know such a spell existed,” Mitch says. “ _ Obliviate _ can’t make you forget… pieces. It makes you forget everything. And they were deemed unstable, weren’t they? Like, fifteen years ago?”

“Right. I,” Connor starts, then exhales loudly. “I don’t think a spell has ever existed, until now.”

Dylan is good at charms. Dylan has always been good at charms, in the way that Mitch had teased him about. Not the  _ develop a new theory _ good, but the  _ wrote the textbook for global use _ good; the good that will last long after Dylan’s retired. This isn’t what he’d had in mind when he’d encouraged Dylan to get creative and ambitious and to  _ write his own spell _ . 

He’d never thought of this. 

He runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck.” 

Connor sighs on the other side of the phone. “I know.”

“You’re sure?” Mitch asks, because he has to, because he can’t help that half of him hopes to all Gretzky that Connor is  _ wrong _ and Dylan hasn’t gone and done something that stupid. “That he did it to himself?” 

“I can’t think of any other logical explanation.” 

At least Connor sounds exasperated. It makes him feel a little bit better about the whole thing. Connor doesn’t ruffle easily. 

“He’s fucking dumb,” Mitch finally says, a little explosive. 

“He was hurting.”

“I don’t care,” Mitch retorts, aware that it’s not exactly true; aware that Connor knows how much of a lie it is. “He… he cut me out. He chose to break up with me. This is… he fucking cursed himself. I don’t care.” 

“Mitch.” 

He closes his eyes against that tone: hurt and frustration and all of the emotions that embody how Mitch feels about his once-relationship with Dylan. 

“He wanted this. He chose this. Why should we do anything?”

“Because we love him.”

Just fuck everything, Mitch thinks. Fuck Connor McDavid and his goddamn sincerity. Fuck his own heart for being a damn traitor, already trying to comb through what he knows - and why the  _ hell _ hadn’t he paid more attention in charms, goddamn it - and, fuck, how much he still loves Dylan. 

“ _ How _ ?” Mitch asks. “Fuck, Connor, how the hell are we supposed to fix this? We don’t even know what it  _ is. _ ” 

“We’ll figure it out,” Connor says confidently, exactly like the guy who’s definitely going to spend more time on the senior glace team this year than with Mitch and Dylan on the juniors’. “We’ll… we have training camp in a week. We’ll all be back at school. You can… take a look and we’ll….” Connor takes a deep breath. “We’re going to fucking figure this out, Marns. Because he was stupid to break up with you and I told him that. I told him there’s no way you didn’t love him like he loved you.” 

Mitch lets out a small laugh and does his best to ignore the last thing Connor said. “As if there was ever any doubt you belonged in East, you goddamned Moose.” Connor embodied everything the East Wind stood for: resourceful, strong, fast, stubborn as fuck. It gave Mitch the smallest ray of hope. Still, he takes some deep breaths to keep himself calm as the conversation truly catches up to him. “Do you know why he broke up with me, then?”

Connor inhales sharply, then drops his voice to this low, passionate thing Mitch has only heard when they had been playing an all star game again the senior team, down one goal with three minutes left. “Dude, he loved you like there was nothing in the world that’s more important. He thought you didn’t care about him as much as he cares about you, despite all the times I reassured him. He just...fuck, Mitch, he wasn’t thinking straight. We have to help him.”

Mitch can’t breathe with the pressure in his chest. Everything hurts. He can barely choke out, “I don’t,” before he has to hang up. He drops to the floor curls into a ball and sobs into his knees. 

Fucking Dylan Strome. 

 

Connor’s the only one on the glace rink when Mitch shoves through the doors, eyeing the top tier like it has all of the answers to every single one of his questions. It’s an ungodly hour of the morning, but it still feels amazing to be back. The ice smells crisp and new. It’s typically Mitch’s favourite part of the season. 

But not this year. This year he’s dragged his ass out of bed - leaving Seb and Eks curled under their own warm covers - because Connor is nothing if not determined. 

“This would be romantic in ninety-eight percent of circumstances.” 

Connor turns, his mouth quirking up as Mitch drops his equipment then wanders over. “You’d think so. You and Stromer.”

Mitch doesn’t wince, but it’s a close thing. “Like you’d be much different. Tell me your perfect date isn’t talking glace strategy.” 

Connor goes a bit red around the ears, but before Mitch can poke fun, he gets an arm around Mitch’s neck and yanks him in. Mitch struggles for a moment, but Connor’s bigger and yeah, maybe a little stronger. He’s using most of his strength and most of his weight and Mitch lets himself fall into it a little. Just enough. 

“I’m sorry,” Connor says, relaxing his grip a bit. “For this summer. I should have reached out sooner.”

“Yeah,” Mitch agrees. “But. It’s done now.” 

Connor huffs. “Isn’t it just.” He sighs. “Look, if anyone asks, we’re talking strategy okay? They’re…” He glances around, shoves his hands in his pockets and Mitch almost sighs. 

“They’re calling you up.” 

A mess of emotions flits across Connor’s face. Excitement, fear, anxiousness, frustration… “They’re going to give you a letter this season, okay? Eks is sure of it. You’re going to get the A.” 

It feels like a platitude and makes Mitch bristle. “You called me here for that?”

“Of course not,” Connor replies. “This is about Stromer, I told you. We’re going to figure this out.”

“I don’t have to help. I have my own shit,” Mitch tries again, even though his presence here tells everyone he’s going to help. He has to help. This is Dylan. 

“This is  _ Dylan _ . So what if he fucked up?”

“So what if he… What the fuck, Connor.”

At least Connor has the grace to look a little cowed, at least until determination takes over his face. “The beginning of the semester is always crazy, but glace doesn’t start until October, right? So that gives us about a two-week window between the beginning of school dying down and glace starting to figure this out. I’m sure whatever Dylan can figure out, so can we.”

Mitch’s reply is drowned out by an explosion of noise. Their yearmates come tumbling in, Jack and Dylan shoving each other through the door as Brinks follows at a safe distance. Chucky’s behind him, then Matts and countless others and Mitch knows, as the noise rises, their time talking about Dylan’s curse - they’re going to need to find a better name for it, fuck you Connor - is over. 

Mitch throws himself into spending some time on the ice with his buddies. But Mitch also knows he’s not quite all there, if the way he gets shoved off way too easily is any sign. He’s grateful it’s just shinny when Dylan keeps trying to run into him, bumping shoulders, slashing at his stick, things that would generally get a rise out of Mitch. Mitch just keeps his head down as much as possible, stick handling during the water breaks and making smalltalk with Brinks about their summers. 

It’s enough to get him through practice, and he’s feeling pretty good about himself until Dylan intercepts him on the way out of the dressing room.

“Hey,” Dylan says earnestly, eyes so bright that Mitch’s heart stops for a moment. “Wanna get a beaver tail? Figure we can have one cheat meal before the semester starts.” 

Mitch is almost too stunned to think of a response. He’s not even sure how he does it, really, how he remembers what Connor had said about trying to act like everything's okay. Fortunately, he sputters out, “sorry, going to Skype my parents right now.” 

He brushes past Dylan so quickly that he doesn’t catch if his ex - friend? whatever -  even says goodbye. He’s not sure how he gets out of the rink, how he makes it back to the school proper. What he does remember is dropping face down in his pillow and willing himself not to hyperventilate. 

  
  
  


The beginning of the semester indeed takes precedence over the first steps. Mitch is the type of student lucky enough to do fairly well so long as he puts in effort, but some subjects just elude him. 

Muggle Studies has always been one of those subjects, and one that hasn’t been really that interesting. At least, not before Dylan. 

_ “I want to teach Saturday School,” Dylan admits over his Muggle Studies homework, just before Christmas.  _

_ “No.” _

_ Dylan’s brow wrinkles. “Yeah, asshole. I’d be good at it.” _

_ “A child recognizing one of their own?”  _

_ But Dylan doesn’t scoff back or snap at him. Instead, he grins. “Something like that. I don’t know, I just… Could you imagine what we would have been like without Saturday School? If we’d all been able to just use magic willy-nilly?” _

_ “Is that the technical term for it?” But Mitch is intrigued and prepared to listen now.  _

_ “It would have been nuts. I’m pretty sure if it weren’t for Saturday School, Matt would have set like, half the house on fire. He’s one of those, you know?”  _

Mitch had put down his quill so he could listen. Dylan has always been beautiful when he’s interested in something. He’d spent more than half an hour detailing to Mitch exactly how important Saturday School had been for him, for his family, and continues to be for magical children. 

Mitch had been beyond charmed. 

Mitch had been in love. 

So when Dylan approaches him one day after Muggle Studies, Mitch knows what’s coming next. 

“Hey! It’s still nice outside. Want to study in the courtyard?”

Mitch wants to say no. He’s not ready. Hell, he and Connor haven’t even really begun researching what Dylan had done to himself. But he also knows that Dylan is one of the few people that can keep him focused. 

“Yeah,” he says, and knows it sounds choked without having to see the look on Dylan’s face. 

Dylan keeps a running commentary as they head out, and Mitch keeps his gaze forward, all the better to ignore the weird looks from those that saw the horrible scene of their breakup. It’s not difficult to find a patch of grass on the wide lawn and settle in. Dylan doesn’t hesitate to open his textbook and start reading. Mitch freezes. 

“What?” Dylan asks when he realizes Mitch isn’t really listening. “What is it? Something wrong?” 

The correct answer is ‘no’. There really is nothing wrong. Nothing except everything. 

Because while Dylan has forgotten everything about their relationship, it becomes painfully clear that he hasn’t forgotten everything about  _ Mitch _ . And that’s just too much to handle right now.

“No, nothing just… I think I’m going to read it myself first.” 

Dylan still looks a little hurt and Mitch doesn’t have the emotional capacity to fix it, not when he’s sitting beside Dylan like everything’s okay. He tries to compensate by asking questions instead of having Dylan’s continued teaching but it only helps so much. It’s always hard to pretend with Dylan, and Mitch has never been a good liar. 

Mitch reaches for his phone and sends a text to Connor:  _ i believe u _ .  _ when do we start? _

 

A day later, Connor drags him to the library and they start with the basics. 

“I’m not even sure what it  _ was _ ,” Connor confides. It’s not that it would be particularly strange for Mitch and Connor to be hanging out together, nor individually strange that they’re going in the library, but Connor had confessed slipping away from Dylan had required an undisclosed favour from Brinks and, well. 

“How do we know what we need to take out then?” Mitch hisses. 

“I’ve been doing research.”

“Research on research,” Mitch sighs. “Why am I not surprised.” 

Still, he lets Connor fill his arms with as many books as Mitch can carry - love spells, memories, spells and books about emotional magic, everything. Even some straight up psychology textbooks, if Mitch is understanding the titles correctly. 

“It’ll be just like Higher Levels,” Connor jokes with a wry smile. Mitch only catches the anxiousness, the nervousness, because he’s looking for it; because he’s hoping that maybe he isn’t the only one totally freaked out by this. 

_ where r u :( _

Mitch swallows around the lump in his throat when he reads Dylan’s message, and looks back to Connor’s mirroring guilty look. Mitch sets the books down and slides to the floor after them. 

“He thinks there’s nothing wrong. He really has no clue.” 

He watches Connor fold himself to the floor as well, the straightness of his back the only indication that he’s feeling any tension at all. “I didn’t really believe it at first either. He loved you so much, you know? He couldn’t suddenly just be fine.” 

Mitch laughs, a little bitterly. 

“No, Mitch,” and Connor’s leaning forward now, intent, serious. “He really did. I’d never… I’ve known him my whole life and he’s never looked at anyone the way he looked at you.” 

“He broke up with me,” Mitch reminds Connor, looking away. “I didn’t…”

There’s silent for more than a few beats. Then Connor says, “We always figured you guys would be the one to go the distance, you know? I think McLeod felt like he and Bastian could make it because you and Stromer were. Did.”

“What lot of good that did them,” Mitch says bitterly. 

“They’re doing well.” 

Which, well, doesn’t make any of it hurt less. “Hope they don’t model it all after us, then.” 

“Mitch.” 

“Sorry,” Mitch says and blows out a breath. He means it, at least when it comes to Connor. “Sorry just… It’s still here, Davo. I still love him.”

“Of course you do,” Connor answers, with a kind of soft sympathy that skirts the edge of pity. “You wouldn’t be doing this otherwise.”

Mitch breathes out, raises his knees so he can settle his head between them. “I don’t know why I’m doing this,” he admits. “I… I want him to hurt.”

Mitch hears a little sound, sees the way Connor pulls his feet away reflexively. Mitch doesn’t raise his head. 

“I don’t want to be alone in this. I don’t want to be alone like this.” He raises his head. “He did this. And he gets to just walk away?” 

“It hurt him enough that he  _ created a spell _ ,” Connor argues quietly. “He took drastic measures.”

“Then why did he break up with me? Why did he end it if it hurt him so bad?” Mitch picks at his pants for a moment. “I would have taken him back. In an instant, you know? I wanted it to be forever. Maybe that’s dumb or naive. We’re young, I don’t know. But…” He laughs, a little bitterly. “I never thought there would be anyone else. I didn’t think I’d have to… that he wouldn’t be that significant in my life.” 

“He can be. If you want.”

Mitch snorts. “Why? Because we’re going to find a solution and he’s going to magically love me again? Even you’re not that optimistic.” 

“You never know,” Connor says and sometimes, sometimes Mitch just wants to plow his fist into Connor’s earnest face. “Maybe he’ll just… fall in love with you again. You could… try that.”

“Just to have him remember? No. I’m okay, thanks.” 

“This, coming from the guy who makes the best of bad situations,” Connor taunts. 

Mitch cusses him out viciously. “Fucking South Wind stereotypes can suck my ass.”

There’s a long, heavy moment before Connor says, voice tense, “do you even want to find an answer? To break the spell?” 

Mitch blows out a breath, feels the anger dissipate with it. Connor’s not wrong, is the thing. He knows part of the reason he’d been sorted into South Wind is because he is the eternal optimist. “Yeah. I mean.” He shakes his head, thinks about how he’s supposed to explain the nasty ball of emotions that inhabits his heart. “I know it’s… He thinks everything is okay and it’s not. It’s not, Davo. And, what, I’m just supposed to tell him that I’m not okay, that we were in a relationship and then we weren’t and-”

“Okay.” 

Connor’s hand has landed on his and Mitch grabs for it, clings and squeezes probably harder than he should. Connor just sits there, lets him squeeze, lets him get a handle on himself. 

He hears Connor take a deep breath before he says, “He was dumb to break up with you, Marns; we both know that. And I can guarantee that whatever spell he used he didn’t want to forget you entirely. He wanted- wants you in his life.”

Mitch tries to breathe through that bombshell, tries to keep his eyes away from the earnestness in Connor’s face. He’s saved by the chiming of Connor’s phone, and has to take a breath around the way Connor’s face turns exasperatedly fond. 

“He’s asking me, now,” Connor says, squeezing Mitch’s hand. “Let’s… we’ll get a few of these, okay? Just… Somewhere to start.”

 

Somewhere to start turns out to be exceedingly complicated no matter which way Mitch looks at it. The subject matter is convoluted on a good day, and not Mitch’s preferred subjects. 

To add insult to injury, Dylan still can’t seem to just… let Mitch mourn. To Dylan, they’re best friends. To Mitch, they’re exes. It’s exhausting to be both, to keep Dylan from asking too many questions and to put his shattered heart back together at the same time. 

“I can’t even say anything,” Mitch laments to Matt Tkachuk later, over charms homework. Matt’s always been a great listener; Mitch has always been a good talker. “Like. He won’t believe me, even if I tell him.”

“He might,” Matt responds. “Memory spells are kind of a weird grey area.” 

“How do you even know that?” 

Matt wrinkles his nose. “Max talks a lot. He’s taking some of that psych stuff, you know? Because of the whole second career still in glace thing.” 

Mitch nods. He grew up with Tie Domi as a glace player, a hell of one too. “He’ll never do anything else.”

“Like you will either. Which is good, since you’re going to fail this charms assignment if you don’t get your shit together and stop grieving over your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” It hurts. Even just saying that, hurts. 

“Sure. Because you won’t talk to him.”

“I  _ can’t _ .” Mitch sighs. “I’m not even sure he remembers he’s gay. You saw him flirting with that girl from North.”

“I mean, we all kind of questioned if he was, like,  _ gay _ though,” Matt says, like he isn’t in the process of upending Mitch’s world. “He never liked any other guy, you know? I mean, we thought maybe McDavid, but…” He shrugs. “I don’t know, Marns. Pretty sure Stromer was only ever gay for you.” 

Mitch groaned. “I don’t think that’s a thing.” 

“Or it’s the only thing that matters.” Matt turns to him, even drops his quill and Mitch squares his shoulders. “McDavid could be right. Making Strome fall in love with you again may have all the answers to this spell of his.” 

“Traitor.” But Mitch’s heart is thumping. He can’t get over how insane that sounds. He’s not sure he ever will. Certainly not when everything still hurts at the mention of Dylan’s name. It doesn’t help that it feels like Dylan’s always in his face, always hovering at the edge of his vision, his mind. 

“No, but think about it. If he still falls in love with you now, you know it wasn’t about you, right? Because you haven’t changed. So then it’s about him and you get to choose if it’s what you want.”

Mitch blinks. It’s… not completely illogical, he thinks. But he can’t do it, let Dylan fall in love with him again only to break his heart. “That sounds dumb.”

“Okay,” Matt says easily, because he is the salt of the earth and unlike everyone else keen to meddle in Mitch’s life, aware of when to fucking drop it. “So...do you even know what a snow charm is?” 

He does, thanks Matt, because a snow charm had been the basis for the perfect prank a year before. As far as Mitch knows, Connor still has no idea how three inches of snow accumulated on his bed. 

(Dylan’s version of a prank was filling Mitch’s bookbag with Skittles, while Mitch went for much more sophisticated and mixed a potion in with Dylan’s shampoo so every time he washed his hair it would turn a different colour. 

But Mitch isn’t thinking about that.)

 

Mitch figures it can only go up. It can’t get any worse than trying to play nice with Dylan and sneaking away with Connor and the extra hours he’s putting in on things he fundamentally does not understand... but it does. He can’t stay objective in all of this, waffles between utter despair and complete and blindingly red rage. 

Mitch is weak. He can’t help but smile back when Dylan looks earnestly in his direction, can’t help but fist bump Dylan back on the ice during shared practices, can’t help how much he just wants to be around the guy all the time. Frankly, he’s losing hope that they’re ever going to make it better. He’ll just have to suffer through the last four years. He’d consider taking the option to leave after fourth year just to get away from Dylan, when he’s 18 and can go to a Muggle university, but he’d never be scouted by any professional glace team that way.

Mitch puts on a brave face and pats himself on the back when he gets through a study session with Dylan without crying. He’s yet to kiss or slap Dylan either, which should get him some kind of trophy.

He knows Dylan notices. Dylan asks, constantly, if Mitch is okay. He’s considered telling Dylan everything to see if that works, but every time he looks into Dylan’s worried, expectant gaze, his throat closes up and all he can say is that everything is fine. 

He doesn’t think things will be fine. His hope dwindles slowly, every day.

It’s surprising, then, for Connor to text him when he’s heading to practice. It says  _ meet you in the dorm at 6? think I found something.  _

Mitch texts an affirmative back and tries to ignore the flip his stomach makes. Connor’s been very careful to only share information that he thinks is important, so this must be significant. It gives him a little extra skip in his step at practice, and Coach commends him for it as he makes his way off the ice. 

“Looking forward to that home opener, eh Marner?” Coach calls out.

“You know it,” Mitch replies. 

He takes about the fastest shower he’s ever had and ignores Seb’s screwed-up, questioning look. Okay, so Mitch is known for taking long showers and maybe even singing a little. Sue him. 

Connor’s already sitting cross-legged on Mitch’s bed when Mitch walks in, a large book that has definitely seen better days laid out in front of him. There’s no one else there, so Connor starts talking immediately. Mitch is grateful that Connor knows when to skip smalltalk.

“So, this says that what Dylan did  _ was  _ basically curse himself,” Connor starts. “And the problem with curses that are this...personal, is that the curse is hard for others to break.”

“Because it’s basically tailored for the person, by the person?” Mitch offers.

Connor smirks. “Exactly. Doesn’t mean we can’t do anything about it though, look.” Mitch rounds the side of the bed and sits down beside Connor, cross-legged. “It’s all in pretty old English, but it basically says as long as we focus all our thoughts on the circumstances exactly as we know them, when the countercurse hits his mind he’ll start to kind of...translate it so it works in his own brain.”

“Davo, I love you, but I hope teaching isn’t your dream job. Otherwise, you have a long ways to go,” Mitch deadpans, and he gets a playful elbow in response. “I think I get it though. So, what do we have to do?”

Connor sits up a little straighter. “The spell is actually really straightforward to do. But we need to do it kinda...surrounded by the person. The person’s things, or whatever.”

“I think Hanny’s back in his dorm by now,” Mitch says, heart starting to pound. “Chucky and Brinks are in detention.” 

“Dylan said he was going to Ryan’s. They’re calling their parents tonight,” Connor replies breathlessly, already half of the bed. 

It’s a short walk to Dylan’s dorm room, but it’s enough to make Mitch pause. 

“Davo,” Mitch starts, putting a hand on Connor’s shoulder so they both stop in the hallway. “Are we rushing this? What if this spell doesn’t work and we got our hopes up for nothing? What if it makes it worse?”

Connor blinks a few times like he hadn’t considered that possibility. Still, he half-smiles and says, “it’s been weeks, Marns. I can see this is wearing on you. And not the extra reading,” he adds when Mitch starts to disagree. “The whole Dylan thing. We have to try.”

Mitch doesn’t know what to say, so he just nods and they’re off walking again. When they get there, Noah is the one to open the door. 

“No one’s home,” Noah offers. 

“Oh, perfect,” Connor answers. “Can we come in? We just need to go to Dylan’s-” 

“Yeah, sure,” Noah says nonchalantly, but eyes the book Connor’s holding suspiciously. Thankfully, Noah doesn’t ask.

Deciding the doorway is not where he wants to linger, Mitch takes the open invitation and walks into the room. He’s surprised to see Eichs lounging on Noah’s bed, looking immensely bored and wearing nothing but sweatpants and a beanie. Eichs gives a quick hey, which both Mitch and Connor return. Mitch can sense the way Connor stands up a little straighter, but he doesn’t comment and instead beelines for Dylan’s bed. 

It stings. But he pushes those feelings down, same as he’s been doing for all this time.

Connor’s not far behind, and they decide to sit on the bed cross-legged, facing each other. Noah has already thrown himself back onto his bed beside Eichs, and puts in both earphones, blasting music so loudly that Mitch can hear the tinny melody from across the room.

Connor passes Mitch one of Dylan’s hoodies, probably trying to help him focus, but all it does is remind him of everything he can’t have. Again.

“Okay, just read this and think about Dylan,” Connor offers, opening the book to the right page.

Mitch blinks. “That’s it?” 

“Well,” Connor says, then points to a part of the instructions that says  _ focus thoughts carefully,  _ “you have to think about everything to do with the breakup, from your perspective. It’s probably best to think about when it, you know, happened.” 

Mitch’s chest tightens, but he’s not about to give up now. He grabs his wand firmly and taps it on his knee once, like he always does before a spell. “Got it.”

Mitch closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and lets all his memories run back as coherently as possible. The way Mitch had been excited at the idea that maybe Dylan was pulling him aside just to kiss him, the way that thought changed to worry as Mitch saw the pain in Dylan’s features, the way Dylan had said  _ this is for the best,  _ the way Mitch had walked back to his own dorm in a trance, feeling alone and betrayed. It’s incredibly easy to stay fixated in that whole chain of events, and when he opens his eyes to look at the words, they start falling off his tongue easily. 

It’s surprising, then, that Jack comes barrelling over, grabs the wand out of Mitch’s hand, and covers Mitch’s mouth roughly. There’s fury behind his eyes like Mitch has never seen, but fuck, Mitch is pissed too. He uses both hands to push Jack’s hand away and then takes his wand back. 

“What the hell, man?” Connor says before Mitch gets the chance. 

“What the hell,  _ me _ ? What the hell,  _ you,  _ you fucking dumbasses!” Jack yells back, and Mitch recoils just a bit. He can see Noah sitting up straight on his bed, tense, but unmoving. Eichs picks up Dylan’s hoodie and shakes it in Mitch’s face. “Do you know what using personal items in a spell this archaic and unstable could do? Probably not, considering you were just about to fuck everything up entirely!”

Mitch and Connor stare at each other in confusion, neither knowing what to say. 

Connor is the one to speak. “You know what we’re doing?” He asks.

Jack rolls his eyes, but fortunately his voice is a lot calmer when he replies, “I’m in some advanced magipsychology courses. And, more importantly, I’m not an idiot because I can recognize a book based on absolutely zero scientific evidence being used inappropriately. I’m surprised it doesn’t have the Freud seal of approval on it.”

“Oh,” Mitch says. 

“Yeah, ‘oh’”, Eichs mocks. “I don’t want to know what fucked up thing you were planning to do to Stromer, but this is not some happy-fun love spell, which you can use personal items for. This was a theoretical approach to legitimate brain restructuring. Is that what you wanted?”

It takes about two seconds for Mitch to realize the question wasn’t rhetorical. “We were, um,” he tries, but he can’t say it.

“Dylan cursed himself, somehow,” Connor interjects, but Mitch can’t tear his gaze away from Dylan’s bedsheets. He knows Connor’s about to tell Eichs everything, but maybe that’s what they need to do. “To make him forget he and Mitch ever dated.”

It’s Eichs’ turn to look stunned. “And he did that...successfully? Without blowing up his brain or growing a tail?” he asks. 

“Yeah, over the summer,” Mitch mumbles. 

“That explains so much,” Noah mumbles just loud enough from across the room. He seems to lose interest in the altercation, though, and goes back to listening to music.

Connor, thankfully, continues, “we’re trying to reverse it, because it’s not right.”

Eichs regards the two of them, and then the book before closing it. “Right, okay, well you weren’t going to reverse it like this. If anything, you were about to make it a million times worse. And you know why? Because you have to use neutral items only, especially since the caster already knows the person of interest. If Dylan altered his memories that specifically, he figured out how to tease apart every section of his memory. Trying to reverse it crudely could damage his entire limbic system, and then you’d really feel bad for yourself. Not to mention you should at least have an MPMD or higher who works with mind curses in the first place. If it’s a charm or a powerful jinx, maybe someone like me could cast it. But still.” 

“Um,” Connor says, which just about sums up how Mitch is feeling. “We have no idea what you’re saying. Maybe try simplifying it just a bit?”

“Plebians,” Eichs huffs and rolls his eyes. “Basically, Stromer successfully erased - or just altered really effectively - only the memories about your relationship, but not about you entirely. The way you two were trying to fix it, you were going to change every memory about Mitch that has, or maybe every memory since meeting Mitch. Or worse.”

“So we would have made him forget Mitch completely?” Connor asks, shocked.

"Or, you know, made him forget who he, _ himself,  _ is entirely _ , _ " Eichs retorts.

An awkward silence falls for too long.

“Thank you for stopping me,” Mitch says, meeting Eichs’ gaze. 

Jack looks genuinely taken aback, but he finds his resolve quickly. He hands the book back to Connor and then saunters to his desk to pick up a rather large book and leaf through it. “I actually might be able to help. I can at least ask Cooper some basic information to see if it really is a curse, and I’ll look through some of my textbooks to see how someone could do something that skilled. It’s really...amazing,” he trails off as he starts reading a sentence from his book. 

“Eichs,” Connor prompts, and Eichs blinks back to reality. 

“Right,” Eichs says. “Well, get the fuck out. Hanny and I actually have to start studying and Stromer should be back soon. Don’t want him knowing about our secret mission.” 

When Mitch gets to the door, he turns around and pauses.

“Thanks again,” he says quietly. 

Eichs doesn’t even look up. “Close the door on your way out.”

Mitch does, and it’s only then that he realizes he’s taken Dylan’s hoodie with him.

 

It’s not…. It’s not great after that, but it’s fine. He and Dylan study together and Mitch likes to think he does a pretty admirable job of hiding the torrent of emotions that reside in his chest. But then Dylan starts showing signs of having a crush. He’s on his phone more often, his smile is a little bit wider. It makes Mitch ache with memories of Connor teasing him that Dylan’s face looked the dumbest when they were texting. 

It comes to a head one night when Mitch and Dylan are studying in the West common room. Dylan’s distracted, to put it lightly. He’s barely looked at his notebook because he’s texting someone with a stupid grin on his face. The grin that was originally reserved for Mitch. 

Mitch swallows the harsh bitterness in his mouth and because sometimes he’s a glutton for punishment, asks, “Something more important than identifying ice-breathing hawk eggs?” 

Dylan looks a little stunned, caught red-handed. But then he smiles that way he used to look at Mitch at morning breakfast. “D’you know Kennedy? From North?” When Mitch nods in a way that is probably too robotic, Dylan continues, “she’s really cool, dude. Think we’re going to the Yellow Brick Road on Friday.”

Oh. “Oh,” Mitch says. “Cool. Yeah, last night before the preseason starts, that’s smart.” 

Mitch  _ definitely _ still isn’t a good actor, because Dylan’s face falls. “Dude, is something wrong with her? Or, I mean, it’s probably not going to be anything. I just, I dunno-”

“No! No, um, it’s cool! Just curious how you convinced a girl to put up with you for more than five minutes,” Mitch jokes.

Dylan grins. “I’ve got moves, Marns. Maybe I’ll show you sometime.”

Mitch looks down and huffs a laugh, incredulous and a little pained. He knows all of Dylan’s moves, after all. “Looking forward to it.”

It’s a scene that haunts Mitch all week, sticks in the back of his mind during practice, during class, every time Dylan nudges up against him in Muggle Studies with some ridiculous doodle in his margins. 

By the time Friday rolls around, Mitch is all but jittery with the whole thing and hating himself for it. It doesn’t help that Dylan sends Mitch an adorable snapchat of him in a button-down shirt with the caption “ _ date night! wish me luck”  _ on it. He’s even included the clover emoji. Mitch hates his life a little. Or a lot. 

He sighs and thumbs open his texts, tapping on Connor’s name.  _ u free? _

_ yeah, just in east cr,  _ Connor replies. Another text comes in:  _ shit, he sent you that snap, didn’t he? _

Mitch doesn’t bother replying, just makes his way to Connor’s house’s common room. It’s not far from South’s but the route does involve passing the dining hall, so Mitch picks up some hot chocolates and nanaimo bars on his way.

Mitch knocks on the door with the ridiculous moose doorknocker, just because he knows it bothers the shit out of all the East students. Connor still greets Mitch with a soft smile, and Mitch holds up the tray of hot chocolates in greeting. 

Connor’s perfectly happy to let him into the common room, to make room for Mitch at the table covered in too many books. Mitch can tell that Connor’s been doing more Dylan research, so he settles in close to Connor to avoid being overheard. There’s only a few people studying by the large window that overlooks the stables, anyway, so Connor gets right into it.

“It’s about Dylan, too,” Connor confides softly. “Jack gave me some books-”

“Oh,  _ Jack _ did, huh?” Mitch can’t help but tease. 

Connor turns bright pink. “He’s really helpful, Marns. He saved us from hurting Dyl more and-”

“Chill, Davo, I know how important the guy is to us,” Mitch interrupts. To see Connor flounder like that is pretty hilarious, Mitch admits. And it’s ever better to see Connor with an actual  _ crush. _

“Okay,” Connor says, then continues. “Well, Jack gave me some books and I found one that talks about the hippocampus’ role in feelings about experiences with certain people, and it cited this other book here.” He points to one that looks like it could be a magazine, for how thin it is. “I know this doesn’t look like much, but read this.” 

Mitch directs his attention to where Connor’s pointing: the figure heading under a very colourful diagram of the brain. 

“ _ Through stroke and other trauma victims, magipsychologists have begun to discern exactly how certain people, places, smells, and other context cues are tied to both simple and complex emotions (Messier et al., 2014),”  _ Mitch reads. “Okay, so?” He asks skeptically.

Connor’s eyes light up a bit. “Do you remember the book Jack was holding that first time we tried to do a spell? That was the Messier book! Marns, I think we’ve had the book with the right spell in it all along!”

Mitch suppresses the urge to groan in frustration because he knows it was important to do all of this research. Still, the hope that Mitch thought would never come back starts to build somewhere in the back of his mind. 

Connor sends off a text to Jack telling him the news. They work on their homework in the meantime, and Mitch finds Connor can keep him on task just as well as Dylan could. It’s refreshing, really, to know that he doesn’t have to develop new habits if things with Dylan…well, in case they never find a ‘cure’.

Connor’s phone buzzes a while later and he looks at Mitch almost immediately, which means it can only be one person.

“Yeah, he can come, if he wants,” Mitch says as he looks down at his hands. 

It’s not long before Connor has to get up to let Dylan into the common room. 

Connor shoots a look to Mitch before he walks around the table to let Dylan plop down across from them. Mitch starts writing random words on his paper to make it look like he’s indifferent, but his ears are burning. 

“So,” Connor says carefully once settled, and even though Mitch is keeping his head down, he knows Connor’s watching. “How’d it go?”

“Fine,” Dylan answers and Mitch has to concentrate to keep himself from snapping his quill in half. “Like. It was okay?”

“Just okay?” Connor pushes, because Connor is a good bro; whether to Mitch or Dylan or both right now, Mitch isn’t sure. 

Dylan makes an indifferent grunt, like when he really doesn’t care what movie they pick. 

“Insightful,” Mitch says bitterly before he can stop himself.

“Oh, fuck off,” Dylan says, but sighs. “She  _ is  _ really cool. Funny and smart and stuff. And we kissed, but there was, like, no spark? You know you’re supposed to feel good when you kiss someone, right?” 

“Definitely,” Connor affirms, but Mitch’s head is elsewhere. 

_ “You’re always so… wow,” Dylan says. His eyes are wide and sincere and Mitch’s breath is short and stilted.  _

_ “You always act like it’s our first kiss,” Mitch replies, but he smiles fondly at Dylan. It’s always one of his favourite things, really: Dylan’s apparent amazement when they kiss, the way he’s perfectly happy to indulge Mitch in just making out forever and ever for the sake of kissing. It makes Mitch feel special. Wanted.  _

_ “Kissing you is nothing like anyone I’ve ever kissed before,” Dylan admits.  _

_ Mitch grins. “Good.”  _

“Marns?” 

Mitch blinks out of the memory, finds himself nodding, even as he looks down at his homework, unable to meet anyone’s eyes. “Sure.”

There’s a silence that feels awkward before Connor clears his throat, shoves some books aside and pushes forward a blank sheet of paper to talk about power plays. Mitch loves Connor as he starts to breathe again. 

 

Dylan is still clueless the first time they face off on the ice. Mitch isn’t convinced he’ll play a more emotional game in his life; not even a playoff game could match the way his heart thumps and he feels a little nauseous. It doesn’t help when Dylan smiles at him from across the ice, taps his stick against Mitch’s when they happen to cross paths at the red line during warmups. 

He’s off, and he thinks it must be noticeable because his co-captain - Alex Carpenter, who is a saint for the shit she puts up with and deserves the damn C - nudges him gently, face grim. “First speech of the year. You up for it?” 

Mitch tries to smile, thinks maybe it doesn’t come off so positive with the way she slugs his arm. The team is twitching when he faces them, anxious to get on the ice. “Welcome back ladies and gents, glad to see you’re all excited to get going.” He swallows and has the flash of thought that he shouldn’t be doing this, he’s not ready for this, but Alex whacks the back of his skate and he forces himself to stumble forward. “It’s the first game so there’s no pressure. Play as a team, avoid ugly checks…” He trails off and sucks in air, reminds himself too that this is just another game. Just another season. Dylan’s team or not… “We’ve got this. We play our game.” 

That gets him a chorus of cheers. He feels better, having a team rallying with him. They have a fucking solid roster this year, and if no major injuries occur they should be able to make it all the way. Mitch has faith.

Alex’s line skates to the brooms at the perimeter to fly up to the top ice, and Mitch’s line assumes their positions on the lower ice to race for the disarming hotspots. Fortunately, Dylan’s line is on the top ice first, so Mitch just has to stare at Keller’s face for the moments before the game begins.

The whistle blows and Mitch skates as fast as he can over to the hotspot by his team’s bench. He can feel someone else on his tail but he’s fast on his feet, faster than he is on a broom, even. 

He casts a quick shielding spell on himself once he reaches the hotspot so he can get at least one good disarming spell in. When he looks up through the magically-transparent ice, he can see Dylan’s line charging hard in a 3-on-2. He knows he should aim for Dylan, because Dylan has the puck, but his hand shakes too hard when he tries to aim. Knowing he doesn’t have a lot of time left before someone tries to knock him out of the hotspot, he chooses Dylan’s obvious pass, Brinks.

_ “Retro citius,”  _ Mitch calls out. 

It’s nothing special, just a charm that makes Brinks skate straight backwards. But it’s enough that Dylan’s pass goes right to where Brinks used to be and is easily picked off by Eks. Eks makes a good pass up the ice and Mitch grins in satisfaction. 

Just like he suspected, he’s knocked backwards by a  _ stupefy _ charm not two seconds later. He hits the ice hard on his back, the wind knocked out of him as he tries to figure out which way is up. As strange as it is, he’s happy to be so confused and dizzy. This is what he loves, this is what makes him happy. Glace, first and foremost.

As soon as he regains his bearings, he can see Nate get checked off the top ice, which means it’s time for Mitch to hustle up. He calls to his linemates Seb and Dutchy, since they should sub in too. Mitch flies up quickly and practically flings himself off of the broom to put his skates to the ice.

Then it’s just… glace. Mitch zones out with the rhythm of it, the muscle memory and skill around this sport he’s played so long. There’s no longer Dylan and Brinks on the ice, it’s players, bodies, obstacles to his scoring that he’s never tolerated before. They get scored on from a greasy play but no one gets down. He doesn’t let them. They take a sub but go back to the top ice soon after. He pulls a couple jerseys, dodges a hit, sticks his tongue out at a defenseman, goes down for another sub. Then he takes to the lower ice to confound Hanny so Alex can deke by and bury and absolutely filthy backhander. 

Mitch jumps a little as he cheers and claps for the tying goal, still looking up to see the team crowd around Alex before flying down for a line change.

Which is why he doesn’t see the hit coming. 

He doesn’t realize he’s flying through the air until he’s crashing to the ice, back and shoulders taking the majority of the force but head still solidly contact the ground too. It almost feels like a disarming charm for the first few seconds until the pain sets in.

“Unnnhhh,” Mitch groans out. He knows he’ll be able to get up in a minute or two but, fucking  _ ow. _

He notices, almost too late, that a crowd is forming right in front of him. Right around whoever laid him the fuck out. He forces himself to his feet, blinking a few times and shaking his head, before he notices that the person yelling the loudest is Dylan. 

“What the fuck were you thinking, huh?” Dylan yells into the guy’s face. It’s Brodie, the infamous hothead. “The play was  _ over, _ he could be  _ hurt _ !” 

Something about this, the fact that Dylan is coming to Mitch’s rescue, ticks Mitch off more than the dirty hit. He pushes Dylan away with a stiff arm.

“I’m fine,” Mitch says flatly. He keeps his head down when he says it, but he can feel Dylan’s look of betrayal without looking.

The kerfuffle dissipates after that, Brodie gets ejected, and Mitch goes to the bench so the trainer can give him a quick once-over. The game starts up again and it’s back to normal. 

Except, not really. The hit, the whole scenario, jolts Mitch out of his headspace. The rest of the game is, to put it eloquently, a shitshow. He gets a sloppy secondary assist but North answers right away. He just can’t get his groove back and he knows Coach isn’t pleased. And, because this is Mitch’s life now, Dylan’s the one to slot the GWG past Parsons. He’s grinning, Mitch can basically see it from across the rink and his heart flips over in his chest. 

The handshake line is its own version of hell. 

“Hey,” Dylan says when they meet each other. “You played well.”

Mitch can’t look at him, but blows out a harsh breath. “I played like shit and you know it.” 

“Hey.” This time it’s more insistent and Mitch…

“Good game, Stromer.” 

Mitch doesn’t look back. 

 

Mitch catches up with Connor just outside the dressing room. They share a hug that Mitch didn’t know he needed so badly.

“You did great,” Connor says into Mitch’s hair.

Mitch lets out a long, shaky breath. “An assist is decent, I guess.” 

“That’s not what I mean,” Connor says, some humour in his voice. He pulls away and Mitch does his best to meet his eyes. 

“Dylan’s going to want to hang out,” Mitch says quietly, watching the sadness fill Connor’s eyes. 

“You head out, then,” Connor says, hitting Mitch on the shoulder. “I’ll keep Dylan occupied. You can go to my room and hang out with Jack and I’ll meet you there soon.” He says it softly, but Mitch knows there’s no debate. Mitch can’t just go to his own room and hide.

“Thanks,” Mitch says softly, and heads out. Feels one more pat on his back and keeps his head down.

Jack opens the door on Mitch’s first knock, ice in his free hand that he hands over to Mitch immediately. Mitch doesn’t need to ask; Davo knows that Mitch’s knee always hurts after glace. 

Mitch lays down on Connor’s bed and places the ice gingerly on his right knee, throws his arm over his eyes. Jack doesn’t talk for a long time. Mitch appreciates that. 

When he does talk, it’s simple and calm. “Don’t worry, Marns. Davo and I are going to work the spell tomorrow, and it’ll all be back to normal soon enough.” 

“What?” Mitch says, sitting up straight. He didn’t know it was happening so soon.

Jack furrows his eyebrows together and cocks his head. “Yeah, I think I’ve figured it out.” He looks happy, proud of himself. Mitch gives a little smile back. Jack’s actually quite likeable, Mitch surmises, and he’s been great through all of this.

“Thank you,” Mitch says, smiling a little bigger. 

Jack nods. “Thank me when it’s fixed.”

Mitch lays back on the bed and thinks about what  _ fixed  _ means until he nods off.   

  
  
  


“Can you go over the spell one more time?” Mitch asks, kicking a pinecone. He watches it bounce a few feet, debates kicking it again.

Jack huffs. “I’m going to sit on the filthy woody ground with Connor because the woods gives me the peace and quiet I need to work. He and I are both going to focus  _ really hard _ on Dylan, and I’m going to say the exact words I showed you yesterday. The spell will beeline for Dylan and, god willing, it makes its way through Dylan’s brain and works. Then you two can go live your happily ever after together…in a few days, at least.”

They’re almost at the edge of the woods now, the snow getting just a little bit deeper here. Mitch was assigned supply-carrying duty, so he has a thick quilt tucked under one arm and a thermos in the opposite hand. 

“It’ll be fine, Marns,” Connor reassures softly, his smile actually calming one of the many knots in Mitch’s stomach. Damn him.

Mitch doesn’t say anything else, just kicks the pinecone along until they get to their destination. Jack comes to an abrupt halt and about-faces on Mitch and Connor as a way to signal their arrival. Mitch lays out the quilt on some nearly-bare grass and looks to Jack expectantly, his heart hammering in his chest. 

“Okay, dude, you need to go,” Jack says flatly.

“What?” Mitch squawks. “What do you mean? I need to be here.”

“You’re  _ fidgeting _ , it’s distracting as hell and all of your stupid-ass thoughts are going to make this thing go haywire. You don’t want to kill him, do you?” 

Mitch looks to Connor, who is of no help. He’s already sitting on the quilt, picking at his pants, a classic sign that he is not here to get involved in this argument. Or that Mitch isn’t going to like the side Connor choses to take. “Why does Davo get to stay?” 

“Because he’s cool.” 

Mitch’s eyebrow go up and he darts a look at Connor. Connor is bright red, and when Mitch turns back to Jack, he’s pretty sure Jack’s going blotchy too. 

“He’s  _ calm _ , oh my god. He’s not like-”

Mitch’s other eyebrow follows the first when Jack trails off awkwardly. “Don’t, like, hurt yourself, bud.” 

Jack is definitely going blotchy, but he makes a frustrated noise. “Look, just… I don’t know, go mope in your own dorm or something. McDavid can come and get you when we’re done.” 

Mitch could pester Jack and Connor into staying. That isn’t a question. What he isn’t willing to risk is, well, Dylan. He looks at Connor. “The minute you’re done.” 

Connor nods, solemn. “I promise.” 

He doesn’t like it; this level of magic has to be exhausting and he knows how Connor gets when he’s tired. But, it’s all he has. He has to… fuck, he has to trust Jack. He already trusts Connor. Connor wouldn’t hurt Dylan. If Connor trusts Jack…

Mitch still kicks that same damn pinecone, harder than he needs to, on his way out of the woods. 

  
  
  


Mitch goes to West’s practice. He shouldn’t, because if he gets caught even Brinks will give him hell, but he can’t help it. He keeps reminding himself what Jack said about the counterspell needing time to work its way through Dylan’s brain (which Mitch still claims to be the most gruesome thought possible, but Jack assured him it’s all for the best), but there is such a high probability that it could do nothing. Or worse, Dylan could remember everything and be angry with them for ruining his ignorant happiness and never talk to any of them again. And it’d be Mitch’s fault.

The guilt dissipates when Connor shows up, ten minutes left in West’s practice, Jack trailing behind him. 

“We couldn’t risk it,” Connor says, slipping into the seat beside Mitch. Jack takes Connor’s other side, doesn’t even offer a greeting. His eyes are fixed on the ice and his leg bounces obnoxiously. It doesn’t help Mitch’s nerves and he’s grateful when Connor leans over to rest a palm just above Jack’s knee. 

“It could go wrong,” Jack hisses, like he needs justification for the way he can’t seem to stop his leg, the way it looks like the only thing keeping it steady is Connor’s hand right there. 

“I thought you were Mr. Confident,” Mitch sneers, but his nerves only intensify when Jack just ignores him. 

Mitch blinks for a moment before a cry rings out across the rink. He spins and finds Dylan looking right at him, like he’d known Mitch was there the whole time. 

It doesn’t look good. Dylan looks like he can’t breathe, like he’s shocked into some kind of frozen stupor and that galvanizes Mitch into action. He’s out of his seat in an instant, wand out to propel himself over the stands. Jack gets there first with a quiet pop that signals magic he’s too young to know, but he’s got Dylan by the shoulders and Mitch tastes copper in his own mouth. 

“Dylan.  _ Dylan, _ ” Jack says firmly, trying to make Dylan look him in the eye. Dylan’s eyes are swimming and he looks ready to crumple to the ground. 

“What the  _ fuck _ did you do to him?” Mitch hisses, unable to help himself. “Dylan, are you-”

“Dylan, what do you remember?” Jack interrupts.

Dylan focuses on Jack, now, but he looks confused. “Remember? What do you mean, remember? What do I have to remember?” He sounds hysterical, on the edge of breaking. Mitch feels about the same.

Jack, however, looks steady but puzzled. “Then what’s wrong?”

“I don’t- I don’t know,” Dylan says weakly. “I just feel, I don’t know. Hopeless? Lost. I- I can’t be here right now.” 

“Okay, okay,” Jack says calmly, and turns Dylan away from the attention of his now-interested team. Connor’s the one to gather them up - always fucking Connor - and herd them away from the drama.

“We have to get him to the dorm,” Jack whispers to Mitch.

Mitch thinks the medical centre is probably a better plan, what with the  _ brain spell _ that is obviously the cause of all of the confusion and, shit, sadness. Mitch hadn’t wanted to make Dylan sad. Not really. Maybe the vindictive part of him, that just doesn’t want to be the only one going through this but… not like this. Not when Dylan looks like everything he’s ever wanted has been yanked out from under his feet. 

Mitch doesn’t say any of that though. What he does say is, “what happened to him?”

“I… don’t know,” is Jack’s completely unhelpful response, and then they’re out of the rink. Mitch doesn’t remember how they get Dylan to cooperate enough to get his skates off, his gear, but they leave all of that behind. They can come back, Connor can get it, right now, Dylan’s the priority, what with the way his breath shakes and his sniffles start to become full-out crying. 

Mitch wants to comfort him, tell him everything’s going to be alright, but he doesn’t want to lie. He can’t lie, not about this. Not to Dylan. 

They get Dylan back to his dorm, and it breaks Mitch heart, the way Dylan clings to his hand, the way he only seems to focus to give them the password when Mitch asks for it. No one bats an eye - glace isn’t the most violent sport, but it wouldn’t be the first time someone came through injured - as they frogmarch Dylan through the common room and up to his dorm. 

They’re just coaxing Dylan under the covers when Connor shows up. 

“Did it work?” he pants, a little too optimistically, if Mitch were being asked his opinion. Mitch can’t look at him, has no idea if it’s Jack that indicates it’s not good, but a moment later, Connor’s taken Jack’s place. “Come on Dyls. We’ve got you. You’re okay.” 

Mitch feels the way everything in him pulls away now that Connor’s here, now that someone Dylan knows so well can take the heavy lifting. He steps back to where Jack’s murmuring into his wand, swallowing. “Strome, look at me.”

“What are you doing?” Dylan asks, turning to face Jack as Jack’s wand starts to glow a faint purple, the closer it gets to Dylan’s head.

Jack grabs Dylan’s chin and turns Dylan’s head back to the way it was, now holding the purple light just above Dylan’s left ear. “Basic diagnostics of your temporal lobes and then your mid and hindbrain, if you’d just stay still,” he says sharply.

“Hey,” Mitch protests, but Jack shushes him. Mitch shares a look with Connor. Connor shrugs, which Mitch takes to mean  _ hey, I’m not the expert here.  _

Jack flits around Dylan’s head for a few more minutes and then gets Dylan to follow the light from his wand. It reminds Mitch of when he was a kid having his first eye check-up.

“Let me just-” Jack starts, then huffs. “Keep him calm. I need my textbook.” 

It’s the longest moments of Mitch’s life, and it’s made worse when Jack returns, his face grim and a giant tome under his arm. Mitch feels his own heart sink to his stomach while Dylan blows his nose.

“Jack, you have to tell us what’s going on,” Connor says softly, much kinder than Mitch feels like speaking right now.

“Good news is, these feelings, emotions, whatever, should only last short term,” Jack says slowly, still reading a page from his book. 

“I’d fucking hope so,” Mitch snaps.

“Bad news is,” Jack continues, “the spell seems to have re-activated the wrong portion of the limbic system. It focused solely on the amygdala.” He huffs a laugh. “At least we didn’t affect the hypothalamus.”

“Jack,” Connor says, still softly, and there’s something that niggles in the back of Mitch’s mind, a knowledge of the way they’re interacting and what it means.

Jack looks up and blinks, eyes clearing. “Oh, uh, we brought the feelings back from when he cast the memory spell, but none of the memories.”

“ _ Memories of what _ ?” Dylan interjects. Mitch’s heart is back in his chest, but it’s beating so hard he fears it’ll escape. 

Fortunately, Jack has an answer. “You did a dumb thing, Strome, and we’re trying to fix it. But right now,” Jack says as he pulls a flask from his pocket. “Drink this. It’ll help you sleep.” 

“Fuck you, I don’t want to  _ sleep _ , what the fuck is going on? Memories of  _ what _ ?”

“Dyls,” Connor interrupts, not quite using his captain voice but getting close to it. “Jack’s trying to help.”

Dylan sniffles again and his face is all sorts of red. Still, he yanks the flask from Jack and chugs the whole thing. Almost instantly his eyes begin to droop and his shoulders sag, and Connor is able to help lie him down properly. A minute later he’s snoring. Mitch tries not to think about how that snore used to drive him crazy and wake him up in the middle of the night; about how much he misses it.

“This is…” Mitch tries, takes a breath, and tries again, “this is how he felt when he cast the spell. The spell that erased me.” 

“It’s the only explanation,” Jack says, and to his benefit he’s shed the analytical furrow in his brow. His face is blank, a face Mitch knows now means he’s just as much of a mess on the inside as Dylan and Mitch are on the outside. “Since they aren’t tied to any actual memories, the feelings should go away within a few days, tops.” 

Mitch tries to keep his breathing steady. “That’s good.”

It’s not good. It’s terrible and it sucks and it kills Mitch to see just what it felt like. It stirs up all sorts of old confusion and feelings because if Dylan felt like this after he broke up with Mitch, why had he even done it in the first place? Why had he ruined something when it made him so upset to do so?

Jack and Connor don’t stop him as he turns on his heel and leaves the dorm. It’s the middle of the afternoon and Mitch has a potions essay to write, but none of that matters in the face of Dylan’s devastation. None of that matters when Mitch can’t get the sound of his sobs out of his head, the feel of his hand clasping Mitch’s out of his mind. He heads up to his room without looking back, ignoring the calls of classmates, teammates. He strips down to his boxers and buries himself under the covers. 

He focuses on his breathing, eyes closed, in and out, in and out. He ignores the door opening, ignores the footsteps until the mattress sags. It’s Matt, face impassive. “Connor sent me.” 

Mitch sniffles and hates himself for it, tries to curl himself tighter. Matt sighs, and a moment later there’s a draft of cold air before Matt’s tucked himself up behind Mitch. “We don’t talk about this in the morning.” 

And Mitch curls tighter into his pillow, and accepts enough of the comfort to cry himself to sleep.  

 

To add insult to injury, he takes a hell of a hit against Jack and North of all the damn teams. It’s a fair hit, he just falls wrong. It’s enough to knock him out of the game, enough that they rush him into a trainer’s room and turn the lights low. It’s daunting, to say the least, and Mitch has to sigh and let himself lean back against the table as the trainers and doctors do their work. 

They leave him be with the smoke screen of ‘tests’ and ‘analyses’, but Mitch is already pretty sure of the diagnosis. It’s all but confirmed when the door bangs open and he not only flinches, but moans outright as the pain sparks through his head. 

“Fuck, Mitch.”

Nausea had not been one of his symptoms, but the sound of Dylan’s voice forces bile up his throat. “Shit.” The world spins like a top and he slumps sideways. 

It’s Connor who moves from behind Dylan fast enough to get a bucket, who settles a hand on Mitch’s back. The bucket gets there just in time, and embarrassment grows quickly. There’s a heat around his ankles that can only be Dylan and Mitch has to work almost twice as hard to make himself stop. 

“They tell you?” Connor asks in that soft voice. Mitch’s eyes are closed as he sits back, his body relaxing as Dylan unwraps his hands from Mitch’s ankles. “Diagnosis.”

“Has to be a concussion,” Mitch replies because like every other young glace player he has to read all of the pamphlets on keeping fit, eating right, and the subtle injury signs to watch for. Nausea, light sensitivity, and the blinding ache in his skull all add up to only one conclusion. 

“Fuck.” And that’s Dylan, in a breathless voice that makes Mitch want to curl into him and cry. But he can’t even open his eyes, won’t let himself.

“Can someone turn off the lights?” Mitch grits out. Fortunately, Dylan is the one to do it, so Mitch can get in some needed deep breaths. He relaxes a little as the red through his eyelids fades to black, enough so he can slowly open his eyes after a few minutes. Dylan doesn’t try touching Mitch again.

Connor hands Mitch his water bottle and takes the bucket away to rinse it. Mitch’s throat still burns but he slowly gets his bearings back, breathing deeply and appreciating the silence. Attempting to put his thoughts together hurts like a sonofabitch, but he can’t stop running through any details in the many magipsychology books he’s read over the last few months. Any way to fix or even somewhat alleviate what he’s feeling right now would be welcomed.

No one says anything for a while. They all sit there, Mitch focusing on his breaths and drinking water, Connor and Dylan in the cushioned chairs nearby. They’re being good friends, really, but the silence begins to weigh on Mitch like a check to his spine. He can feel their eyes on him every so often, and though he appreciates them not checking their phones or asking Mitch if he needs anything it makes the moment feel serious, insurmountable.

He’s about to say something to them just to get a soft conversation going when there’s a purposeful knock on the metal door. Mitch takes it as a win that his ears don’t ring after it, nor when the door slowly swings open and his team’s trainer, Kevin, walks in.

“Concussion, right?” Mitch asks through gritted teeth. 

Kevin lets out air through his nose, shakes her head. “Glad I got to skip saying that part.”

Still, Mitch’s heart sinks. There was a small part of him still hoping it was a jinx gone wrong or... something. “How long?”

“We’ll keep you monitored for progress; I think you know the prognosis varies,” Kevin says. And because he doesn’t bullshit, thank goodness, says, “I’d say four to six weeks. Four if you follow our directions- no electronics, dark room for a few days at least, take it easy in school. We already have necessary doctors’ notes ready for you.” 

The sharp inhale Mitch hears definitely doesn’t come from him and his eyes float closed. He can’t do this right now, think and hope that maybe Dylan does care and-

“We’ll get your notes.” Fuck, it is Dylan, closer now, Mitch can hear. A moment later there’s a heavy weight on his ankle again, tentative like Dylan doesn’t know he can touch - and Mitch bites his tongue against the torrent of words that climb up his throat, about how Dylan can still touch him wherever, whenever, how all Mitch wants is a good cuddle and Dylan’s always known how to wrap him up just right. 

There’s a hand on his shoulder a moment later, and Mitch feels his chest collapse a little, the tightness easing. Connor knows, his addled brain reminds him. Connor won’t let Dylan hurt Mitch. 

God, his brain’s messed up. 

“Hey, Mitch. Don’t fall asleep on me yet, bud.” 

The hand tightens on his ankle and Mitch’s eyes fly open with a hiss. “Fuck, Stromer, chill out.” 

“Sorry, sorry.”

It’s Connor that says, “Can we take him back to the dorms?” 

Kevin looks at Mitch. “I’d rather send you up to the hospital wing for the night, just to make sure. Is there someone who can wake you up?” 

“I can,” Dylan says and startles all of them. 

“You live in a different dorm,” Connor starts. “Pu is there, it’s going to be fine.”

“You’re going to trust him to Pu?” Dylan retorts. “That would be like me entrusting your life to Eichel.”

“Hey,” Mitch feels obligated to say, in stereo sound with Connor. Then he goes on, “Cliff’s fine. He only slept through his alarm that one time.”

It’s not that Mitch doesn’t want it to be Dylan. It’s not that Mitch wouldn’t love for it to be Dylan, waking him up every two hours with a soft voice and quiet questions, curled around him like he used to do last year when days got bad. It’s that it’s not fair, it’s not his place, and… 

And Dylan chose to walk away from that. 

“Ekblad’s there,” Connor argues. “He knows.” 

Because Ekblad had been down with a concussion at the beginning of the season. Just a short thing, a precaution really, but for Mitch, it’s real. 

“I can do it.”

“You have your own shit, Stromer.” 

“So what?”

“Stop,” Mitch steps in, finds himself reaching for his temple whether in frustration or pain, he’s not sure. It shuts them both up quick. “There are plenty of people who can look in on me in my dorm.”

“And,” Connor starts like he’s had an epiphany, a little triumphant in the way that puts Mitch’s teeth on edge even if the argument is likely in Mitch’s favour this time. “You can’t go to his classes and watch over him. The last time you got less than eight hours of your precious beauty sleep you slept the whole way through charms.” 

“You could use a bit more of that beauty sleep there, bud.”

Connor stiffens and Mitch feels like he wants to cry because this is stupid and everything is stupid and he has a  _ concussion _ and he knows Connor looks tired because Connor has been trying to  _ solve his friend’s stupidity _ and Mitch-

“I’ll go to the hospital wing.” 

“What?”

“What?!”

But Mitch’s gaze is on Kevin. “Just for the night, right?” 

Kevin pauses for a minute, like he’s trying to take the temperature of the room and says, “Just for the night, if we can make sure your symptoms aren’t worse.” He looks at Connor, then Dylan and goes on, “We’ll ban visitors while you get your rest.” 

Dylan looks like he wants to argue, but Mitch feels the way the tension leaks a little out of Connor’s body. Mitch nods. “Can I just… nap here first?” 

Kevin chuckles. “Come on, Marner. I’ll help you up there.” 

Dylan and Connor leave reluctantly, Dylan moreso, but Mitch is really just so fucking grateful he’d dodged that bullet. 

 

_ “I’m fine _ ,”  _ Mitch says, swiping at Dylan’s hand. “It’s just a cold.” _

_ “Just a cold, you idiot, you’re shaking. You probably have a fever, just let me check-” _

_ “Oh my god, you are not going to check my temperature!”  _

_ Dylan glares. “What if you’re actually sick? You need fluids and soup and you know they don’t always put soup out for dinner-” _

_ “It’s just a cold!” _

_ But his body aches every time his bag shifts on his shoulder, every time he bumps into another person. All he wants to do is curl up in bed and maybe sleep for a year, but he can’t with his tests and assignments and winter break coming up faster than he’d ever imagined.  _

_ “Marns, Mitch, come on. You’re barely walking here,” Dylan argues. “Just let me take you back upstairs, okay? You can miss one day.”  _

_ “We’ve got Muggle Studies in two days and you know how hard I find Babs’ exams.”  _

_ “Yeah and I got you, Mitch.”  _

“Mitch.”

Mitch startles awake to find Doctor Williams hovering over him with an apologetic smile. 

“Sorry,” Mitch mumbles.

“Don’t be sorry, honey. Just going to ask you a few questions.” 

Mitch rattles off his name, the date, the school, his parents’ names, his favourite class and what happened, before Williams leaves him alone, back to his thoughts and the ache in his heart. 

He misses the way Dylan would brush back his hair, rub at his scalp because it’s always been the one sure-fire way to settle Mitch’s every nerve, to sooth so much of his imagined or legitimate pain. He misses the feeling of a warm body beside him. 

He misses Dylan. 

It takes him a while to drop off again. 

 

Recovery is slow and hampered by the sheer number of people who seem to want to support him in that recovery. It gets harder and harder to sneak away from Dylan when he isn’t hiding in his own common room. While it makes Mitch feel better, it also makes him feel like he’s splintering himself into pieces with every hour Dylan spends meticulously going over their class work on days where Mitch can’t even open the curtains. 

What it does, more than anything else, is drive Mitch to the brink. 

Which is why, when he’s just been cleared to return to classes and slowly start back into practice, Mitch proposes something that’s maybe… a little drastic. 

“What if,” Mitch he says, running his quill through his fingers. Connor and Jack are snapping at each other, a little bitchy, a little pissy and if Mitch were in a different place he’d wonder if it’s foreplay. Instead, he goes on, “What if there is no spell to break.” 

Both Connor and Jack blink at him, argument forgotten. 

“What? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“That’s dumb, what do you mean no spell to break?”

Mitch holds up his hands as they talk over each other, arguing. “Just.” He sighs. “We’ve been at it for so long and we’ve got nothing.”

“We don’t have  _ nothing, _ you cretin, how dare you,” Jack says with a glare. “We’re going to break this fucking spell so you stop moping around.”

“I’m not-” Mitch huffs. “My point is, what if the only thing to do is go forward?” 

Jack and Connor are quiet for a long time after that. Long enough that it puts Mitch’s teeth on edge. 

“We’ve just… we’re nowhere.” 

Connor looks at him, stricken. Mitch knows that feeling. The idea’s been gnawing at his stomach for weeks, since their original spell did nothing but bring Dylan pain. It’s not what Mitch wants. 

“Look,” and he turns to Connor, because Mitch knows which buttons to push. Dylan used to say it was his superpower. “I can’t keep doing this, Davo. I can’t keep thinking we’re getting closer and closer and sit on that hope.”

“My  _ god _ you are a sap, Marner.”

Mitch ignores Jack. Jack will push and push and push, and while Mitch can see why that would be attractive to Connor, it’s not what Mitch needs. Not right now. What Mitch needs is air to breathe that isn’t tainted by Dylan and everything they had. 

“You’re perfect for each other,” is what Connor says, low and hurt. “I just… Mitch, you were - you are - so good to him. I…”

Jack looks absolutely appalled at the emotion floating around here, but Mitch can see the way his fingers are twitching, like he wants to reach out. “You want to  _ give up _ .”

“No!” Connor says immediately. “Of course not, what the fuck.” 

“It  _ sounds _ like it.”

“It does not. Mitch is asking-”

Mitch puts up his hands again. “I’m asking…” He’s not even sure what he’s asking, what he ultimately wants. “Can we call it taking a break?”

“Like Ross and Rachel did?” 

Mitch barks out a laugh. “I don’t know. I just know right now it doesn’t feel like there’s a way to go back and rehashing all of the details isn’t getting us anywhere.” He looks at Connor, because he knows his damn audience. “We need to stop trying to break it and start thinking about… about tests and exams and the end of the year and…. There are more important things.”

“Than your heart?” 

Mitch knows his smile wobbles and he really doesn’t miss the way Jack is stiff and statue-still. “My heart will heal, Davo. I think maybe it’s time to give it the space to do it.” 

There’s a standoff moment before Jack says, “I’m not giving up.”

“Okay,” Mitch agrees easily and pushes himself up, starts to gather his things. “But I’m out.” He meets Jack’s eyes, hopes maybe a little desperately that something in his face will help Jack  _ get it _ . “Leave me out of it.” 

He thinks maybe it’s supposed to be a relief to walk away like that, but there’s also a part of him that doesn’t feel better at all. It feels like he’s starting the grieving process all over again, has to start from the beginning at getting over Dylan. 

He climbs the stairs to his room, drops his bag just inside the door. If he lets Cliff believe the closed curtains and tiny ball is his concussion acting up again, well, Mitch doesn’t feel all that guilty about it.

 

The bravado is… very fake. It’s terrifying to think that there isn’t a spell to break, that Mitch will be perpetually in love with Dylan and Dylan will never remember what the mean to each other. Mitch isn’t sure there’s anyone in the world that could match up to Dylan. It’s been weeks since his revelation to Davo and Jack, yet he only feels like he’s taken one step of a million toward making his heart whole again. 

“Hey.” 

Mitch cranes his neck from where he’s got it on a pillow, looks up at where Dylan’s sprawled over the couch. They’re supposed to be studying, but Mitch can’t get his mind to settle enough to focus. 

“You’re like… a million miles away.” 

“Yeah,” Mitch agrees and sits up. “I think I’m just going to head back to my dorm.” 

“You haven’t even started. You’re not going to focus any better in your own dorm.” 

He’s not focusing here either. “The library maybe. Change of scenery.”

“Okay. Let me get my stuff.” 

Mitch has to take three deep breaths before he can say. “Nah. You stay here. You look comfy.”

Except Dylan’s already standing, shoving papers and books into his bag with his usual disregard for how difficult that makes things at the end of the day. 

Fuck, Mitch loves him. 

So. Mitch does the mature thing and runs. 

He leaves his bag behind, leaves everything behind, just bolts out of the common room and hopes Dylan doesn’t come after him. It’s false hope, because no sooner has he taken four steps does he hear Dylan coming after him. But Mitch is wily and fast, known for it even and he’s in the hall before Dylan catches up to him, wrist gripped loosely in hands Mitch misses. 

He can’t. 

“See, there’s totally something up, what’s going on?”

And Mitch knows Dylan genuinely wants to know. He wants to pick it apart and help Mitch solve it like there isn’t this elephant and Mitch  _ can’t _ . 

They’re standing under a staircase that looks exactly like the one from when Dylan had broken it off. It doesn’t instill a lot of faith in Mitch about this upcoming conversation.

“It’s nothing. Really. I’m fine.” 

There’s silence for a long time before Dylan says, “I don’t get it.” It’s not exasperation anymore; it’s actual anger, and Mitch feels his stomach churn. “You’re… hot and cold. I can’t get a read on you. One second I’m pretty sure you want me naked and the next….”

Mitch makes a wounded noise because  _ fuck everything _ . He can’t and he won’t because he  _ promised _ he wouldn’t do anything that could damage Dylan anymore. Things like telling him about their relationship or actually verbalizing the million ways he can’t stand this. How much he hates that he can’t just let Dylan wrap him up and hold him close and tell him that… 

But that’s not his place anymore. 

So he makes himself turn away, makes himself take one step, then two because he can feel the panic rising in his chest, the explosion that’s crawling up his throat. He wishes he had just pushed Dylan away, two-handed and forceful. 

“Like this!” Dylan exclaims, and Mitch can hear him move, hear him start to follow. “Every time I think we’re getting somewhere you just walk away like you can’t be around me and you have never been a fucking coward.”

And he breaks.

“You were _in_ _love with me_ once,” Mitch snaps, whirling around. “That’s what this is about. That’s why you keep thinking you see me looking at you like I want to bang you and like you’ve ripped my heart out. Because you did, Dylan. You broke up with me and then you fucking erased everything about our relationship.”

Dylan freezes. “What?” he manages. “That’s-  _ What?! _ ”

“You. Erased. Me,” Mitch repeats. “You cast a spell that… fuck, we don’t even know okay? We have no idea. All I know, all we can figure out, is one day you were just as broken as I was,  _ as I am _ , and the next it was like our relationship had never happened. You were fine and you thought we were friends.”

“We were,” Dylan says, wounded. “We are.”

“ _ We were more _ ,” Mitch retorts then sighs, runs a hand through his hair. He can feel the way he’s tearing up, the sting of it in the corner of his eyes. “Dylan. You were everything. I loved you, so much.” He laughs, a little incredulous. “Fuck, I still do. Of course I do, because you’re always fucking  _ here _ . You’re always fucking…”

“Mitch-”

Mitch shakes his head, stumbles back when Dylan reaches for him. He barely registers the shattered look on Dylan’s face. It’s too much, it’s all too much. Mitch can barely breathe with it. 

“I want to be friends because it’s all I can have,” Mitch finally says when he feels like he has a better handle on himself. “Because you made it… You spelled yourself out of love with me, so I get it. I do. But it hurts every day, Dylan. Every day, having you so close, but not where I want. Knowing that I  _ did  _ have you, and you chose to forget about it.”

“Why?” Dylan croaks. “Why did I want to forget about it? Why did I-”

“I don’t know,” Mitch replies when Dylan can’t seem to go on. “I have no idea, Dylan. You wanted to  _ forget _ .”

“Never.” 

It’s the passion in his voice that keeps Mitch from saying anything, the sheer blazing determination that takes over Dylan’s face. 

“Why would I want to forget you? Why would I…” He runs a hand through his hair, looks wildly around for a moment. “That doesn’t make  _ sense _ , Mitch.”

Mitch waits, because he can’t do anything else. He can’t make his feet move, no matter how much he wants to. Dylan looks wrecked, like he did the day they broke up and Mitch knows he’s not strong enough to walk away from that. Not when he couldn’t the first time. 

“It doesn’t make sense,” Dylan says again, “because I love you now. I…”

Mitch can’t breathe. He’s not sure he is. 

“I love you now,” Dylan repeats, louder. “I’ve loved you for months. I didn’t think…” He shakes his head. “You love me?”

“Oh my god, you’re a fucking  _ idiot _ .” 

“But… you spend all that time with Davo. And Eichs. Like, I thought they were a thing, but you’re always with them. And then there’s Tkachuk and Domi and-”

“You think I’m sleeping around?”

“I don’t know,” Dylan says exasperated. “I just know you don’t love me. Not like-”

“Stop.” 

Dylan does, chest heaving, looking just as devastated as Mitch feels. 

“How?” Mitch finally makes himself say. “How do you know I don’t love you? Everyone knows I love you.  _ Noah Hanifin _ knows I love you. It’s not a secret. I’ve never made it a secret.” 

“Because you don’t. Why would you?”

Mitch makes a noise that he thinks may be incredulous, but he’s really not sure. “Why would I-?” Mitch shakes his head. “You could have  _ asked. _ You  _ chose _ to forget about me. You decided that and it…” His shoulders slump. “You decided that I wasn’t worth it.” 

Dylan makes a noise, but Mitch barrels on, “Look. I do love you. I’ve loved you…. God I don’t know how long, Dylan. What other reason would I have for being such a mess? If I didn’t love you, it wouldn’t bother me, right? It wouldn’t matter.”

“You’ve always needed to solve puzzles.”

Mitch knows his breath shakes when he releases it, that there are tears in his eyes. “Are you ever going to believe me?” He finds himself asking. “God,  _ did _ you ever believe me? Because I told you. I know I did, a lot. I told you I loved you, I said ‘I love you, too’, every time you said it to me. Did you ever believe me, when I said that?”

“Mitch-”

He recoils fast enough to jam his elbow into the wall with a hiss, then has to dodge out of the way when Dylan reaches for him again, concern in every line of his face. “Fuck,  _ stop _ . Dylan. You can’t- This isn’t  _ fair _ .” 

“Look, Marns, Mitch, I- I know what kind of person I am, okay? I know I’m a jealous asshole, that I’m competitive, that I’m needy and I’m a terrible loser. You’re not any of that. You’re so good you don’t need a backup plan like I do, okay? So why would you stay with someone, love someone, who’s only going to hold you back?” 

“Because you were the one person, the only person I needed to believe that I could do any of that,” Mitch retorts sharply. “My parents have to love me. My brother pretends he doesn’t, but I’m pretty sure he’d beat up anyone who told me I couldn’t do whatever I wanted. They don’t get an option. But you do, you did, and you chose me. Do you have any idea how that felt? You’re best friends with  _ Connor McDavid _ , your brother knows  _ Tavares _ and yet you chose me.” 

Dylan’s blinking at him in surprise and confusion, like everything both makes sense and doesn’t compute. Mitch huffs. 

“You chose me. Of course I loved you. Of course I love you. How could I not when you’re the first person to hand over licorice, when you fucking  _ bring _ licorice because you know I love it. You adjusted your studying for my learning habits. You did everything you could to help me succeed in whatever I wanted to do. You made me laugh, you were there when I was down… Dylan,  _ how did you not know _ ?” 

“Because I am never going to be good enough to deserve you.” But Dylan sounds different now, awed, taken aback, but not argumentative. 

Mitch takes a step forward. He reaches out because he can’t stop himself. “There’s nothing to be good enough about,” Mitch finds himself saying, heart lurching when Dylan takes his hand. “You don’t get to choose if you’re good enough. You choose that  _ I’m _ good enough, that I’m the best. The same way I choose you. Fuck, Dylan, every time, I choose you.” 

“I love you,” Dylan breathes, like he’s incapable of saying anything else. 

“No shit, you dumbass.” But Mitch says it without heat, couldn’t put it into the words if he tried. 

“I want to date you,” Dylan replies, breathless and Mitch jolts. “Again, or whatever.” 

In theory, Mitch knows, it should be exciting. He feels it, even, that thrill at the possibility of having Dylan back, at having Dylan  _ his _ again. But there’s a healthy sense of trepidation too, worry and concern that this will turn out the same way it did last time. There’s no history that proves Dylan will believe him in this, and Mitch can’t go through all of this again. “Dylan…”

“I… I guess I fucked up. I don’t know. Erasing my memories…” He barks out a laugh, runs his hand through his hair. “It sounds like something Davo could do, you know?” 

That Dylan doesn’t have the skill to do, and in a way, Mitch wishes that were enough for him, too. 

“But that doesn’t mean I don’t mean it. It doesn’t mean that I can’t… That I didn’t fall in love with you again.” 

And Mitch gets that, he does. Hell, it had been an argument more times than he could count between Jack and Connor and Mitch himself. It had been Mitch’s argument to stop trying. But it’s not a magic formula either. 

“I…”  _ don’t know _ , is the end of that sentence, but the idea of saying that makes Mitch’s stomach roll. Despite his year, despite everything Dylan’s put him through, Mitch still wants him. Mitch still loves him, stupidity and all. 

Dylan swallows, wraps his hand around the one Mitch hadn’t even realized was tangled in Dylan’s shirt. “Let me try. Let- Let us try. We’ll… start with a date, yeah? Just one date.” 

“Okay,” Mitch breathes, before he really knows he’s going to do it. “Yeah, okay. One date.” 

To see if he can start again. 

To see if they can start again.

 

Dylan suggests À Reculons, a small cafe on Yellow Brick Road, for their first date. New first date? Re-first date? Mitch doesn’t know what to call it, he’s just getting to the place where he’s grateful it’s happening. 

Mitch FaceTimes both Connor and Matt to make sure that his outfit is appropriate. Connor, bless him, smiles and says the blue plaid looks great. Matt, the asshole, rolls his eyes and tells him to go with black jeans before hanging up. They both text Mitch telling him to chill out, though, so Mitch does his best to follow that advice. 

Mitch meets Dylan at the foyer of the school a little early. They’re always early, both of them, and Mitch smiles knowing that some things haven’t changed. 

Dylan looks...tired. He doesn’t have much colour in his face and there’s purple under his eyes. He gives Mitch this hesitant, contemplative smile that Mitch still isn’t letting get to him that much. This is new. This is starting over. He can’t feel this strongly nor ask Dylan how much sleep he had the night before. It’s not time, yet.

“Hi,” Mitch starts. His voice isn’t shaky or small like he thought it might be; he’s happy, and it’s showing.

Dylan’s smile widens and oh, Mitch’s heart is tight in his chest again. “Hi. You, uh, look nice.” 

Mitch looks down - he’s carrying his winter coat so Dylan can actually see Mitch’s full outfit and, well, it’s nice that he noticed.

“Thanks. You look alright too, I guess,” jokes Mitch. Dylan looks down at himself too, and that’s when Mitch notices - 

“Dude,” Mitch barks out, grabbing the top of Dylan’s head, “you’ve got a  _ grey hair.” _

“What?” Dylan asks, hysterical. He tries to muscle Mitch off but Mitch has both his hands gripped deep in Dylan’s hair, and soon enough Mitch is twirling the short, light strand between his fingers.

Mitch can’t stop giggling. “I mean, it’s got a little bit of brown at the end, I think…” He drags out the vowel and then goes on with a laugh, “Nope, all grey.” He grins and holds it extra-close to Dylan’s face, almost touching his nose. 

“It’s almost  _ white _ ,” Dylan whispers. He’s staring at it as if he can turn it back to brown, and Mitch is still grinning.

Mitch lets the strand drop to the floor without thinking about it. That’s Dylan’s first grey hair, he should have at least taken a picture of it or something. Dylan looks unfazed, though. Practically over it.

“All better,” Mitch declares. 

“I thought if you pull out one, three more grow back,” Dylan argues with a smirk. 

Mitch rolls his eyes. “That’s bullshit, Dyl. Come on, I want an eggnog latte.” 

He goes about one step before he realizes he’s slipped his hand into Dylan’s, easy as ever. He pauses, looks down, looks back up to Dylan. Dylan smiles, slight and warm. 

They walk down the portrait hallway hand in hand, and Mitch feels the warmth of Dylan’s hand like a hug after a long day in the cold. It’s quiet for only a few minutes before Dylan breaks the silence. 

“I, uh, don’t think I told you,” he offers, “I just got approved to shadow a Saturday School teacher nearby.” 

Mitch can’t help it, he leaps in step a little. “What, really? That’s - Dyl, that’s awesome! Is it just a one-time thing, or what?”

“No, well yes, but only if I don’t like it. If the teacher and I get along, I can help them more when it doesn’t conflict with glace. And then maybe get pre-approved for the TA course a year early. I might even be able to volunteer at a summer school in Toronto to help some students who struggle with control and stuff.” He’s rambling, like he sometimes does, and Mitch never wants him to stop.  

“That’s going to be so much fun,” Mitch encourages. “So, Saturday school is what you really want, then?”

Dylan shrugs. “For now, I think so. This just keeps my options open, and all that.”

The conversation continues as such, light and easy and mostly about school. Soon enough, they’re through the portrait tunnel and entering Yellow Brick Road, donning their coats quickly.

It’s one of those beautifully bright, blue-sky days with snow lightly dusting everyone’s toques, coats, and hair. Mitch feels like he’s in a snow globe. Still, there’s a chill in the air, so Mitch and Dylan scurry to the cafe. 

Dylan’s cheeks are blotchy pink and his eyelashes have flecks of snow in them. They share a smile and get in line to order. 

“I’ll pay,” Dylan offers. 

Normally, Mitch would argue. It takes him a breath to say, “alright.” 

They sit in leather chairs that look out to the street with their steaming mugs, but it takes a long time for Mitch to feel truly settled. The awkwardness settles in on their shoulders, between them, and suddenly Mitch feels like they’re just pretending. Like this was a mistake. Like they’re doomed to fail again- 

“Mitch,” Dylan interrupts softly. He looks hurt.

Oh, Mitch was saying those things out loud.

Mitch swallows, lump in his throat. “Sorry. It’ll, uh… I still have to get used to this. Whiplash, and all.” 

Dylan nods, understanding. He places his hand on top of Mitch’s gently. Mitch breathes. 

“We can do this,” Dylan assures. “Mitch, you can tell me if you don’t want to. But I just- I just have this  _ feeling, _ this really good sense, that we can start over. Make a good thing happen. Yeah?”

Mitch turns his hand around so his fingers link with Dylan’s. “Yeah.”

Mitch looks at Dylan and knows that things won’t be truly good for awhile yet, that his trust is broken. But at least they’re on the same page. At least they’re trying again. 

It’s enough to be hopeful about.


End file.
